


The Cake... Experiment?

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amazed Everyone, Baking, Birthday Cake, Domestic Fluff, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Fluff, Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Puzzled John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: John walks into the flat only to find Sherlock... baking.





	The Cake... Experiment?

John lent back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, something he'd found himself doing a lot that day. There was a knock on the door that jerked him alert.

“Sarah?”

“John, you look shattered. Why don't you go home?”

“I'm surprised I look that good.” He gave a weary smile and stood. “I think I will. I just hope Sherlock doesn't have any strange experiments on. I haven't had a text in hours.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Exactly. He's always up to something when he's not bugging me.”

Sarah smiled softly. “Up to trouble, is he?”

John grabbed his jacket and shook his head. “God, I hope not.”

He worried and stared at his phone all the way back to the flat. The longer his phone was silent, the more concerned he became. As he left the streets of London behind the front door, he smelled something heavenly. Mrs. Hudson must be baking again.

He walked to 221A to check on her, attempting to poke his head around the door but it was locked.

“Shit,” he muttered, running down the hall and grabbing the banister to pull himself up as quickly as he could. Bursting into the living room, he realised the smell was coming from their kitchen. “Sherlock! You can't kidnap Mrs. Hudson and force her to cook!” He rounded the corner into the kitchen only to find the detective standing there. Alone. Looking utterly ridiculous and also shocked.

“What? John?” His eyes darted to the clock. Half 4. “You're early.”

He was in the process of cutting away the caramelised part of the cakes.

“I was worried. It's been 7 hours.”

“Since what?”

“Since you sent me a text!” John held out his phone and waved it at the other man.

“You always complain that I text you too much.” He stood and looked at the cakes critically, then decided that they needed a little more levelling and picked the knife back up. “Oh, come on, since when has that ever bothered you?”

“It's important. Critical, even.”

“What? Is it for? A case?”

“Shh!” He carefully levelled the cake in question. “Don't interrupt.”

“You're reproducing a murder weapon.”

 

Sherlock's gaze flickered up, confused. “It's a cake, you imbecile. Are you feeling alright? Sure there isn't another reason you came home early?”

John shook his head. He had to be dreaming. “You don't bake. You definitely don't bake cakes. Come on, Sherlock, what's the case?”

“There are 4 different cakes here. For different layers. Surely if it was an experiment I would only have baked the one?”

The doctor just stared at him dumbly. “But-” John looked at the cakes and frowned. “No, they're all different colours! See! It is an experiment.”

“Really, John, that's for aesthetics. Do get a grip.”

“That is why there are two yellows and two oranges. It makes a pattern. You're supposed to be 'intelligent'.” He had put the cakes aside now and was in the process of adding milk to the concoction in the mixing machine.

The doctor walked over and looked at what Sherlock was mixing up. “This is like at Baskerville, then. There's something in that.” He pointed at the bowl.

“Yes, you moron. Buttercream.”

John opened and closed his mouth a few times acting stupidly like a goldfish.

That was it. The doctor gave up. He turned and went back to the living room. He sat in his chair, picking up the novel he was currently reading. Next thing, Mycroft would come through the door in a tutu. Buttercream. John turned abruptly. The last time Sherlock had had a mixing machine out he had been processing human blood. He looked at the machine. It was a different model and looked new. He sat back in his chair again, still mightily confused.

Sensing John's distrust, Sherlock waited until his mixture was smooth enough to crumb coat the cakes before pulling one of the whisks free and taking it through to the front room. Before John knew he was there, Sherlock pushed it into his mouth.

“Mmph!” The doctor's eyes lit up. He grabbed the whisk and started licking it. “That's actually quite good.” He licked the whisk clean. “Can I lick the bowl?”

“Not yet. I haven't used the rest of it yet.”

“What are you doing with it?”

Sherlock sighed and turned on his toe, John struggled up from the chair in shock to follow him. The doctor still had no idea what his friend's creation was going to turn out to be, but he felt a little less trepidations about it now. He settled into a kitchen chair to watch. “Did that buttercream have some form of recreational-”

“No! You watched me make it.”

John waved the whisk in his hand in the air. “I watched these things spin.”

Sherlock's exacting motions were interesting to watch. He clearly knew what he was doing.

The doctor had baked a cake once. It had been all of two layers high and lopsided. He had even had to glue one of the layers back together with icing where it had split in half. It had been for Harry's birthday. They had laughed over the pitiful thing, but it had tasted good.

The detective quickly pulled a spatula from nowhere and dumped a dollop of the buttercream in the middle of the bottom cake and began to spread it around.

Impulsively, John reached out and scooped up a finger full of the buttercream and stuck it in his mouth. Sherlock glared at him.

“Gavin won't like that.”

“Hmm? Oh, Greg-”

“Neither will my brother, for that matter,” Sherlock huffed.

After the doctor had licked his finger clean, he asked, “What do they have to do with all of this?” He waved at everything on the table.

“Isn't he your friend?” Sherlock frowned.

John punched him on the arm. “Obviously.”

“Well it's his birthday tomorrow.”

The doctor boggled. “You're making Greg a cake. For his birthday. You.” He sat there in silence for a while, then said, “I need a drink.” He had fetched a beer from the fridge and opened it when he paused and turned to look at his flatmate. “What's that got to do with Mycroft?”

“You don't know? You really are completely oblivious aren't you?”

“Shut up with the insults and explain.”

“My brother has found himself a boyfriend.”

John glanced down at his beer, wishing it was something stronger. “Mycroft and Greg.” He shook his head. “Mycroft and Greg.”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“You approve of this?” the doctor asked, incredulous.

“I approve of anything that keeps my brother too busy to micro manage my life.”

“I think you'll find he started leaving you alone when you got with me,” the doctor countered.

“You will find that that is the precise timing of them 'getting together' as you put it.”

“Oh.” John thought he should be able to guess what the cake was going to be by now. It clearly wasn't a traditional round cake. Its shape suggested something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Sherlock quickly added the second dollop to the next cakes and worked his way through them. When all four were crumb coated, he shoved them all into the fridge, which, for once, was body part free.

The doctor sat up a bit straighter. “Why did you do that?” He pointed at the fridge. “And can I lick the bowl now?”

“Honestly, John, do you do all of your thinking with your stomach?” Sherlock stretched, his shirt riding up, and revealing a pale stripe of skin.

John cleared his throat, looking at his boyfriend's enticing flesh. “No, not always my stomach. Ahem. Anyway, why did you put them in the fridge?”

“Take a wild guess.”

John just glared at him.

“The fridge refrigerates anything you put inside.”

“I kind of got that, you prat.”

“The buttercream needs to harden and stop any crumbs deciding they might want to fly out in your face.”

“You realise I'll have to tell Mrs. Hudson that you can bake.”

“You'll do no such thing!”

“It's not fair to make her do all the baking, 'Lock, not when you're this good at it.”

“It would crush her if she found out. Promise me, John, you won't tell her.”

“Aw, does Mr. Holmes Jr. care about Mrs. Hudson?”

“You know I do! And I didn't just get this good by chance. My nanny when I was young insisted. Told Mummy it kept me out of trouble.”

“So Mycroft's knows?”

The detective sighed. “He had to help.”

John immediately fell into a fit of giggles. How could he not? His giggles turned into side splitting guffaws and there were tears in his eyes.

Sherlock folded his arms in a huff.

“What's so funny?”

“You and Mycroft! Baking! You would have been what 8 or 9? That makes him 16!”

“Mummy threatened him. He didn't really have much of a choice.”

“I do like your mother.” The doctor reached for the bowl of icing that was leftover, intent on eating it. “She is a strong willed woman.”

“If you eat all that now, you won't eat tonight.”

“I just won't cook tonight,” John replied, dipping his finger in the bowl again.

“I know. Because we're going to a party for Gavin. He's working tomorrow night, some obbo or something.”

“Does that mean your brother will be there?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, stop it. You love him.”

“Don't make me ill.”

John leant over to kiss him. He quickly rammed his tongue down his throat, forcing his head back.

Sherlock quickly held his hands up. “Alright, alright,” he panted around the doctor's mouth. “I surrender.”

John chuckled, but leant back.

“Promise me I don't have to dress up for the party,” the doctor demanded plaintively.

“You can wear your same boring clothes as normal, but if you wear the oatmeal jumper, I'll burn it.”

John sighed, “Fine, I'll stick a shirt on.”

Sherlock smirked. “Of course, that doesn't mean Mycroft won’t dress up.”

“He dresses up to go to McDonald's.”

“I assure you, neither he nor I have ever been to McDonald's in our lives.”

John's eyes lit up with glee. “Greg and I will fix that.”

“Bollocks,” he hissed.

“What time's this party then?”

“Not until 8. That cake needs half an hour in the fridge, but I got called out to help on a case this morning so couldn't start it until a few hours ago.”

“Come here,” John insisted, arms outstretched.

“Why?” the detective pouted.

“Because I want to hug you, you berk. This, what you're doing is really nice.”

Sherlock frowned. “No it's not. It's duty.”

John laughed. “How on earth is it duty? Solving cases for the royal family is duty.”

“Because if I impress Greg he'll keep Mycroft out of my way.”

“You just keep telling yourself that. And I'll just keep thinking it's sweet.” The doctor grabbed his boyfriend and hugged him fiercely.

“Will you go and have a shower or something?”

“If you join me.”

“I'm busy.”

“You said you had to leave it half an hour. Plenty of time.”

“There is no point me showering now when I'm about to prepare icing. And anyway, busy.” He pecked John on the nose and headed back to the kitchen.

John stood there with his mouth hanging open as he stared at his boyfriend. His mad, mad nutter of a boyfriend. He shrugged. He might as well get that shower.

The man was insane. John decided.

Sherlock set out cornflour over the unit and pulled out his already coloured fondant.

That stopped the doctor in his tracks. “What is that?” He jabbed a finger at the fondant. “It looks like that dough stuff kids play with.”

“It's icing.” The detective rolled his eyes.

“And why on Earth are you using cornflour? That will make it taste awful!”

“Dammit, John, do you want to make it?”

The doctor chuckled. “You're alright, thanks, just answer and I'll go for a shower.”

Sherlock got his 'showing off' grin back. “Icing is difficult to use.”

“Cornflour must taste weird.”

“Nope,” he popped the p and threw the fondant into the unit, kneading it slightly. “It's tasteless.”

John disappeared to fetch some clean clothes from their bedroom, chuckling to himself at his prima donna cake maker. Who would have thought? He would have to quiz Mycroft about that. He was sure he could get vital and interesting information out of the government official. As he was showering by himself, it didn't take John very long. He towelled off his hair and got dressed, curious as to what progress Sherlock had made.

Sherlock was still in the kitchen when he remerged 20 minutes later.

He was rolling out the icing, checking with a ruler that it was the same thickness all over before he was ready to lift it up.

“Isn't that a bit- obsessive?” John asked. After all, it wasn't like it was rocket science.

The look Sherlock gave him was scathing.

“What?” He asked innocently.

“If the icing is too thin, it will tear when I lift it and I'll have to start again. If it's too thick, it will be sickly. If it's uneven it will taste wrong. Nothing worse than a mouthful of icing when you were going for cake.”

“I had no idea is was so important.”

“Well, you're an idiot.”

***

Sherlock wouldn't allow the doctor to hold the cake in the cab. Nor when they climbed out outside Mycroft's place.

Molly greeted them at the door rather than the butler. She hugged John, then went up on her toes to kiss Sherlock's cheek. He managed not to roll his eyes but only just.

“Oh, John! The cake is gorgeous. How thoughtful. It must have cost a fortune.”

Greg appeared behind Molly and glanced at what Sherlock was holding.

“Wow!”

In the detectives hand was a rugby creation.

“Where did you get that, John? Myc, come and see!”

Other party goers gathered around and made appreciative sounds. When Mycroft joined his boyfriend, he smiled at sight of the cake. Raising his gaze, he met Sherlock's eyes. “You've outdone yourself with this cake, brother mine.”

Almost as if completely dumb, Molly and Greg shared glances.

“Not a hope in hell,” the DI was shaking his head.

“On the contrary Gregory, my brother is quite the baker. He made that cake for your birthday. It's been years since he's last baked. You should be quite touched.” Mycroft reached out and too the cake from Sherlock's hands, smiling his thanks at the effort that had gone into the cake.

Before Sherlock could really comprehend the fact no one thought him capable of such a thing, Greg had lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the detective.

“John,” Sherlock said, body stiff, “what is he doing?”

“He's saying thank you, you git,” the doctor said, laughing. His good natured laughing spread through the room as the other guests began to applaud.

Sherlock blushed bright red and John smirked. “Alright, Greg. That's enough hugging.”

When the DI let go, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist. “Have I ever mentioned how proud I am of you? You can do anything, can't you?”

“Obviously. And I'd be only too happy to show you some more of the things I can do when we get home.”

The doctor discreetly cupped Sherlock's arse cheek and squeezed. “I just bet you would. Now get yourself in there and mingle.”


End file.
